Period 8

.15



Dr. Johannsen walks onto the stage in a stone-silent auditorium, the counselors and other administrators in folding chairs next to the podium. Justin and Tak sit between Paulie and Hannah near the front.

Dr. Johannsen taps the mike with her finger. “Good morning, people. For those of you who don’t know, the family of one of our students experienced a major house fire last night. A few minutes ago I got off the phone with someone from the city fire department, who says there is evidence of foul play, which I assume means arson. They’ve requested to come into the school today to ask questions of anyone who might be able to shed light on their investigation. Your teachers will bring you up to date on the details, and we’d like anyone who thinks they might have any useful information to excuse yourself to the office. Please do not use it as simply an excuse to get yourself out of class.”

Light laughter.

“Okay,” Dr. Johannsen says, “return to your first period and let’s see if we can do this in a fashion that doesn’t cause too much interruption in the day.”

The mass exodus begins.

“I saw on TV that a neighbor said Kylie was yelling it was her fault,” Justin says.

“Kylie or her mom,” Hannah says.

“Yeah, well,” Tak says, “what’s your bet? Remember her in P-8 the other day?”

The others don’t respond. They remember.

“Second news report said no one was injured,” Paulie says. “So what’s with the ambulance?”

Justin smiles. “Two kinds of hospital you go to in an ambulance,” he says.

Paulie and Hannah say it together: “Psych ward.”



“So,” Paulie says, gazing at Justin and Tak, “Sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. Where the hell is Mary Wells?”

“I guess that used to be a lot of money, huh?” Justin says.

Tak says, “Yeah, back when they made up the saying. Mr. Logs was probably younger than us.”

“I caught up with him on the way out of school,” Paulie says. “He’s still gonna meet up with her dad this afternoon. He said he’d call if he learns anything.”

“Lot of crazy shit happenin’ around here,” Justin says.

“A lot of crazy shit.” Tak agrees. He sips his hot chocolate. “What do you guys think about Kylie? House is on fire and she’s yellin’ it’s her fault?”

“That neighbor wasn’t sure who was yelling,” Paulie says. “And you know the news guys, they’ll say anything to get some suspense going.”

“Maybe,” Justin says, “but she gets all freaky the other day in P-8. Might make sense she’s freaky when the ol’ home catches fire.”

Paulie rocks his chair back on two legs, staring at the screen on his cell. “I was gonna hit the water this afternoon, but I’m afraid I might miss something.”

Justin says, “I just want to hear what Wells is gonna say. Shit, man, his daughter is missing and he’s more pissed and embarrassed than freaked. What a sorry . . .”



Paulie enters Period 8 late the next day, sees an open seat next to Hannah and slips into it.

Logs says, “So, who wants to start?”

“How about you start, Mr. Logs,” Marley Waits says. “You know any more about Mary? And what about Kylie?”

“This is probably confidential,” he says, “but we keep it all in the room, right?”

“Yeah, man,” Justin says. “We keep it in the room.”

“They took Kylie to the psychiatric unit.”

Taylor Max says, “She start the fire?”

“No, Taylor, she didn’t start the fire. She got hysterical and they couldn’t calm her down. She’s there for a seventy-two-hour observation. That’s about all I can tell you.”

“Was the neighbor lady right?” Bobby Wright asks. “Was she yelling that it was her fault?”

“I have no idea,” Logs says, “and how about we keep the conjecture to a minimum. Maybe when all of this calms down she can tell us herself.”

“So what about Mary?” Marley asks.

“I don’t know a thing. I was supposed to meet with her father yesterday afternoon, but he didn’t show up. Either he didn’t get back or he decided not to keep us in the loop. I’m sure he’s contacted the police.”

“Jesus Christ,” Hannah says. “Your kid is missing and you take a couple of days to come home?”

“I got the feeling on the phone that Mr. Wells thinks Mary took off to cause trouble for him,” Logs says. “Since she disappeared that first time, he isn’t giving her much slack.”

“God,” Marley says. “Do we know her better than her own dad?”

“Doesn’t sound like that would be much of an achievement,” Tak says.

Arney bursts through the door. “Hey, everybody. Sorry I’m late. Student council meeting.”

“Emergency meeting to save the school?” Justin says.

Arney ignores the sarcasm. “Something like that.” He doesn’t make eye contact with Paulie or Hannah. Or Justin, for that matter. To the rest of the room he says, “We set up a plan to gather donations for the Clintons, and to send a card up to Kylie.” He looks directly at Logs. “Man, I missed that one. I thought she was okay after I talked with her the other day.”

Logs only nods.

Hannah leans over to Paulie. “Arney’s so full of shit. You should have heard him talking about her the other night.”

“Don’t tell me,” Paulie says. “Tell him.”

Hannah stares at Paulie a second, then looks over to Arney. “Why would you be involved in sending her a card after all those things you said about her the other night?”

Arney shakes his head, looks at his hands. “I meant to talk to you in private,” he says, “and to you guys, too, Jus. I was way out of line. I think I’m one of those guys who needs to stay clean and sober every minute. I talked to my dad this morning and he’s looking into getting me into a program.”

“Really,” Hannah says. “Which one?”

Arney doesn’t miss a beat. “Daybreak, probably,” he says. “Outpatient.”

Justin leans over to Paulie. “That f*cker is slick.”

Hannah smiles. It’s always something you can’t check with Arney, she thinks. Daybreak is confidential. He can say anything he wants. I’ll bet anything he knows at least three kids’ names who go there, and he’ll drop them on us within the week. Swear to God if I didn’t know better I’d think he had something to do with Kylie going off. Mary, too.

Paulie leans toward her. “I wish you’d have let me talk,” he whispers, “about the thing with Mary.” He hesitates. “It wasn’t exactly what it looked like.”

Hannah grits her teeth, then slides down in her seat.

“You’re right,” he says, “It is what it is. But I like the truce. He reaches over, drums his fingers on her knee.

She covers his hand with hers.

“Keep the truce?”

She nods tentatively, glances over at Arney, who is watching, then away.



“It’s good to get back into a pattern,” Logs says to Paulie. Hannah drives toward them, her scull mounted atop her car.

“And good to have her back,” Paulie says. “I’m glad she didn’t make us wait ’til she got her new boat.”

“Be patient, my friend,” Logs says in a low voice as Hannah gets out of the car.

They help Hannah get the scull into the water. “Thanks for coming,” Logs says. He looks out over the water, then at the sun low in the sky. “We don’t have a lot of light, so what say you guide us out a little over halfway, then we’ll hook on and you can pull us back. We’ll all get a quick workout, then come earlier next time and do some real work. We’re getting a little more light every day.”

They launch the boat off the end of the loading dock. Paulie and Logs slide into the water.

On the seat of his Beetle, Paulie’s iPhone vibrates with an incoming text.



Paulie and Logs speed toward the city police station in Logs’s pickup, Paulie staring at the text and Logs breaking nearly every traffic law that won’t get them killed, hoping to get pulled over for speeding, thereby picking up an escort.

When Paulie saw the text just after they shed their wetsuits, he panicked. He praises the gods that Logs was there—Logs, who seems to never panic. Hannah read the message and headed for Mary’s house, leaving the scull on the dock, dialing and re-dialing the number Logs gave her for Mr. Wells’s cell on the way.

“If he answers tell him or his wife to meet us at the station,” Logs had told her. “If he doesn’t and he’s not home, leave a note. Make him understand how urgent it is.”

“I’d have you call 911,” Logs says to Paulie now, “but I don’t know where to send them. Officer Rankin gave me his private cell and said to call any time if something related to Mary came up.” He spits out Rankin’s number from memory. “Don’t know how I can do that,” he says. “I can’t remember to get cat food. If he answers tell him to meet us at the station.”

Paulie is dialing as Logs says it; Rankin answers on the second ring. In as few words as possible Paulie relates the facts. “We’re on our way to the station now,” he says.

“I’ll be there in fifteen,” Rankin says. “Meet me outside. I can set things in motion faster than you could starting your story from scratch with the desk.”

Logs floors the gas pedal of the old Datsun. They speed onto the off-ramp and onto city streets, running rapidly changing yellow lights at busy intersections and red lights at empty ones.

Officer Rankin waits as they pull into a no-parking zone in front of the station. “What have you got?”

Paulie punches “Messages” on his iPhone and turns the screen toward Rankin, and translates. telkylieto run wachout4arne myparents2 getsisandrundanger 4 any1hooreadsthis.

“Jesus,” Rankin says.

Logs says, “What do you think it means?”

“I don’t know. You’re going to have to let me keep your phone this time, son,” Rankin says. “I have a feeling this will be critical evidence.”

Paulie reluctantly hands over the iPhone.

“So what do we do now?” Logs asks.

“Go home,” Rankin says. “There’s nothing you can do. If we need anything else we’ll give a call.” He takes Logs’s numbers. “Again, don’t give anyone the specific content of this.” He holds up the phone. “And I mean no one.”

“Man,” Paulie says, sitting in the shotgun seat on the way back to the lake to retrieve his car and their gear. “Oh, man.”

“What in the world could Mary know about Kylie?” Logs says. “Any way you look at it, this is bad.” He accelerates onto the freeway. “After we pick your stuff up, I’m following you home.”

“Why?”

“To talk with your mom. We have no idea where Mary sent that text from, but it was dire. She said anyone who reads it is in danger and the message came to your phone.” Logs moves into the right lane and onto the off-ramp. “I hope Hannah got in touch with the Wellses. If not, I’m sure Rankin will.” He hands Paulie his cell. “Call her.”

Paulie punches in Hannah’s number while Logs takes a right onto the narrow two-lane that leads another mile and a half to the lake. Suddenly bright lights and an explosion of metal on metal rocket the pickup sideways and down the grassy incline. It rolls once before coming to a rest upright against a thick pine tree. Paulie and Logs sit stunned, steam and smoke pouring from under the hood, the horn blaring. Paulie’s head clears, he checks for injuries, struggles with his seat belt.

“You okay? Paulie, you okay?”

“I think so. I can’t see anything. Jesus, what happened?”

Logs slams the palm of his hand against the glove compartment, popping it open. He feels for the handle of a crescent wrench, finds it, and breaks out his side window, groping for the seat belt release. He knocks out the edges of the glass, peering up toward the road at headlights beaming above their heads. The driver’s-side door of a dark SUV opens, casting a glow on the exiting driver, and a passenger following. In a split second it registers. “Run!” Logs shoulders his door, creating an opening just wide enough to slide out. “Paulie, run!”

“What? Where?”

“Get out of there!”

Paulie shoulders his door, but it’s blocked by the trunk of a thick pine. “This side!” Logs’s voice is low and tense. “Hurry!”

He pulls the driver’s-side door open a hair farther and Paulie squeezes out. “Run!”

Paulie hasn’t seen the two men moving down toward them through the waist-high grass and he starts to bolt toward the road. Logs hauls him back by his shirt collar. “Into the trees. Stay with me.”

They move quickly, mostly by feel in the darkness, until Logs stops and they stand, listening. Logs puts a finger to his lips and pushes Paulie deeper into the trees, then stops again. The voices are distinctly farther away.

“What the hell is going on?”

“I don’t know,” Logs whispers, “but those guys rammed us on purpose.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah, Jesus,” Logs says. “The interior light came on when they got out . . . don’t get freaked, but I think one of them is Rankin.”

“Shit!”

“Yeah. And whoever it was meant to kill us. That vehicle was moving full speed.”

“Man, you’re scaring me.”

“Good.”

“What’re we going to do?”

“We’re going to get farther into these trees and give ourselves time to think. And listen. If their voices get closer, we gotta move.”

“Shit, I quit Boy Scouts after a month. I can’t tell which direction is which.”

Logs points west. “Lake’s that way.” Then east. “Road’s that way. We can’t double back.” As they stare toward the road, the horizon brightens, shadows grow more pronounced. “Sweet Jesus,” he says, “more cars.”

He puts a hand between Paulie’s shoulders and moves him another twenty-five yards into the thickening forest.

“Logs, what is this?”

“I have a hunch, but whatever it is, we’re in way over our heads. We need help.” He slaps his head in realization. “Rankin has your cell and mine’s in the truck.”

“What’s your hunch?”

“Just believe whoever’s behind this has nothing to lose.”

“What are we gonna do?”

Logs is silent, then, “We got one shot,” he says.

Paulie gets it. “The lake.”

Logs leads them over the forested hill toward Diamond Lake. Voices behind them fade, but light patterns in the trees tell them someone is on the move.

“This is going to be cold as hell,” Logs whispers. “We can’t go to your car or the dock. Rankin knows we were headed back there. We’ll go north a couple hundred yards and get in through the tall grass.”

“Then what?”

“I’m not sure. They’ll probably check the shoreline. We might have to cross.”

“The one thing we can do that they can’t,” Paulie says.

“There’s no moon. It’s easy to get disoriented in the dark. There are cabins on the other side, but they’re back in the trees. We’ll have to find some point to fix on.”

Logs leads them well north of the dock. They emerge from the trees to see headlights back near Paulie’s Beetle.

Paulie whispers, “F*ck.”

“No, this is good,” Logs says. “If they think we’re dumb enough to go there, they’ll have to leave someone. That means fewer guys to come looking. I don’t have my glasses. Can you see how many?”

Paulie squints. “Three vehicles. Can’t see how many guys.”

“Too many, is how many.” His voice drops even lower. “Now listen. We leave our clothes here. You still have your suit on, right?”

Paulie nods.

“Me, too. Everything else we bury. There are probably sticks and rocks and all kind of shit in the grass between here and the water. I don’t care if you step on a rattlesnake, make no noise. Rankin is a cop. He’s armed.”

“Got it.”

“That water’s gonna be cold. When you hit it, you don’t even suck air. Dead quiet. Hands and knees crawling in, breaststroke for at least five hundred yards. Sound carries, Paulie, and if they hear us, we’re done.”

“I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever.”

Logs stares at him through the darkness. “I know you will. I’m just scared, just like you. We’ll be fine.”

They shed their clothes and quietly bury them beneath leaves and needles. The night air is cold and Paulie feels goose bumps rising. This is nothing, he thinks, compared to what it’s about to be.

Logs stands, looking out at the blackness that is the lake. He points—a single dim light flickers on the other side. “There’s our anchor point,” he whispers.

Paulie squints. “It’s the Thumpers,” he says. “Friday nights, Firth and the other YFC kids go right where Twisted Crick runs into the lake. Build a big bonfire and sing songs and shit.”

“Blessed be the Lord Jesus Christ,” Logs says. He breathes deeply. “Okay, stick together. Breaststroke or sidestroke until I say different.”

They crouch and move silently toward the water.

A powerful searchlight sweeps toward them; they simultaneously drop to their bellies in the tall grass. Logs watches as it passes over, then lifts his head, watches. “They’re not sweeping the water. They haven’t figured us out yet.”

Paulie shakes uncontrollably. He can’t feel the cold now, it’s all fear.

When the light sweeps past again in the opposite direction, Logs says, “Let’s do it.”